279 AC — Age 7
The first fight I lost wasn't really a fight.
It didn't start with anger or insults or anything dramatic enough to justify the word. It started with two boys, a stretch of packed earth behind the storage sheds, and the shared certainty that nothing important happened there.
That certainty was wrong.
I wasn't supposed to be there alone. I knew that. Maege had been clear about where I could go and when, and Harlon or someone like him was usually close enough that I could see him if I looked.
This was one of the moments in between.
Not absence. Just distance.
I had been sent to return a coil of rope—too heavy for one arm, awkward rather than difficult—and told to come straight back. I did. Mostly. I took the longer path because it was flatter and didn't pull at my shoulders as much.
That was the decision.
The boys were already there.
They were older. Not by much—maybe nine or ten—but enough that it mattered. One of them had a stick. Not a weapon. Just something to hold, to point with, to make space where there wasn't any.
"Hey," one of them said when he saw me.
I stopped.
They looked me over with the casual interest of people deciding whether something was worth their time.
"You're Maege's boy," the other said.
"Yes," I replied.
That was all I said, because that was all I was supposed to say.
The boy with the stick grinned. "Thought so."
He stepped closer, not fast, not threatening. Just close enough to test whether I'd move back.
I didn't.
That was my second mistake of the day.
"Bet you think you're strong," he said.
"No," I replied.
That threw him off for half a heartbeat.
"Everyone says you're training," the other added.
"I stand around a lot," I said.
That wasn't meant to be funny.
They laughed anyway.
The boy with the stick swung it lazily, not aiming for me, just cutting the air between us. "So what happens if I do this?"
I watched the stick. I watched his hands. I watched his feet.
I didn't see Harlon.
That mattered too.
"I'd like to go back now," I said.
"Why?" the first boy asked.
"Because I was told to."
They exchanged a look.
The stick came at me faster than I expected.
Not hard. Not meant to hurt. Just a snap toward my shoulder, testing.
I reacted on instinct.
I raised my arm.
The stick hit bone.
Pain flared bright and immediate, sharp enough to steal my breath. I staggered back a step, surprise outweighing anything else.
They froze for a moment, eyes wide.
"Didn't think you'd just let it hit you," one of them said.
"I didn't," I replied, though that wasn't entirely true.
I had misjudged the distance.
The boy with the stick adjusted his grip. Less casual now. "Again?"
"No," I said.
He swung anyway.
This time, I moved.
Not well.
I tried to step inside the swing the way I'd seen Gerren do with older boys, but my timing was wrong and my foot slipped on loose gravel. The stick glanced off my forearm instead of my shoulder, stinging and hot.
I stumbled.
The other boy took that as invitation.
He shoved me.
Not hard.
Hard enough.
I went down.
The ground knocked the air from my lungs. My palms scraped raw against stone. For a moment, all I could think about was how cold the earth felt through my clothes.
They stood over me.
The boy with the stick hesitated, uncertainty flickering across his face. "We didn't—"
"Too late now," the other said.
He kicked dirt toward my face, more insult than injury.
That was when I did something stupid.
I lunged.
I didn't have a plan. I didn't have leverage. I had anger and embarrassment and the sudden, overwhelming realization that everything I'd practiced meant nothing if I couldn't stay on my feet.
I grabbed his leg.
That part worked.
He yelped in surprise and went down hard beside me, the wind knocked out of him in a way I recognized immediately.
The stick clattered away.
The other boy reacted faster than I did. He kicked at my ribs, sharp and unrestrained now that the line had been crossed.
Pain exploded through my side.
I curled instinctively, arms coming up to protect my head, body folding in on itself.
It was over quickly after that.
A shout. Heavy boots. A hand on my shoulder, rough and decisive.
"Enough."
Harlon's voice.
The boys scrambled back, faces pale now, bravado evaporating as fast as it had formed.
"I didn't—" one of them started.
Harlon didn't look at them. He hauled me upright with one hand, steadying me until the world stopped spinning.
"Go," he said, finally turning. "Now."
They didn't argue.
Harlon waited until they were gone before releasing me.
"Can you stand?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
It was a lie, but a small one.
He let me take two steps on my own before catching my elbow. "That'll do."
Maege was already on her way across the yard when we emerged, expression carved from stone.
"What happened?" she asked.
Harlon answered. Brief. Exact. No embellishment.
Maege listened without interruption, eyes never leaving my face.
"Inside," she said when he finished.
I didn't argue.
The walk hurt. Every breath pulled at my ribs. My forearm throbbed, already swelling under the skin.
Inside the keep, I was sat down and stripped of outer layers with brisk efficiency. A servant fetched water. Another brought cloth. Someone else sent for the maester.
I watched it all from a distance, pain blurring the edges.
Maege crouched in front of me once the worst of the movement stopped.
"Did you start it?" she asked.
"No."
"Did you escalate it?"
I hesitated.
"Yes," I said.
She nodded once. "Good."
That surprised me.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because you know the difference," she replied.
The maester arrived and examined me carefully. Nothing broken. Bruised ribs. Scraped palms. A forearm that would ache for days.
"You'll be sore," he said unnecessarily.
"Yes," I replied.
After, when everyone else had gone back to what they were doing, Maege stayed.
"You lost," she said.
"Yes."
"That will happen again," she continued. "More than you like."
I waited.
"You did not freeze," she said. "You did not run. You did not keep fighting once it was over."
She paused.
"All of that matters."
I swallowed. "I was stupid."
Maege's mouth twitched. "Yes."
She stood. "Tomorrow, you will apologize to the boys' families."
My stomach dropped.
"You will not apologize for defending yourself," she added. "You will apologize for being where you weren't meant to be."
That was worse.
"Yes," I said.
That night, my body ached in ways training never had. Bruises bloomed purple and yellow. Every breath reminded me of the kick I hadn't seen coming.
Dacey climbed into my bed without permission and curled against my uninjured side, warm and solid.
"You lost," she said matter-of-factly.
"Yes."
"Did it hurt?"
"Yes."
She considered that. "Good."
I stared at the ceiling. "Why?"
"Because if it didn't," she said, already drifting toward sleep, "you'd do it again."
I lay there long after she fell asleep, ribs aching, pride stinging worse than any bruise.
I had lost.
And somehow, that mattered more than winning ever had.